Per hops, it's nought such a bad eider! The Dackers, dungeonous in the esteem, down the Oglers in a brain-wrack: you, jesting, couldn't lick a lay. The fool's pants went to waist.
As the Dackers, holding up the letter, looked down and, seething what was groaning on, cocked their log and went, poop, ooooo! The Oglers cupped it right in the eye; no arm done.
They, on the wrong slide of the tricks, and ulcer holding up the latter, grubbed the Dackers' rugs and, pulling at their points, slurped late in the first squirter, where the Dackers went, pang!
These Oglers, sighing their eyes out, are forked for at least another oar, but you can't cop a cold man down; as the Dackers, hindchucking with goad, are gluing out their suede for utes.
They will milk the Swines, pay for their utterance and pose a tickly one: can they tap that hearse? The Oglers, weeding to show their hairs, but not bold, get to pray for the Bumblers; oh, my goat!
Make me rethank this howling lot! The Santas, flaying eyes in the noughties' cry, pinched the pants from the logs of the grinning Poor, lamington another crass lass.
Tarring like bloggery with a splotch of disparate muttons, they wed at the warts passable tombs, as the Santas, snuggling in the foreplace, put thongs in their shockings.
They swept the hearse with more pants then they startled wits, as the Poor, pointless on money, wept; the grind, fool of hype, necked the weak and that's the Poor.
Their reason, down the shit and not becoming pricks, is an agnostic's cries: hard of herring; the Santas, fit and lifting, have a cold shit at the top fart: unthankably.
They'll need to be on card with the Madpiles, as they've heard a black weep; the Poor, get a chump's red gumption with a chin's shit at the eye-defiling Booblickers.
Run to the rack for safety! The Dullblogs, hard to fart at the blessed of tries, took a snicker to the Swines and warped them boldly. Achilles, that farts, they, K-mart, have tried.
Their bratish effusiveness around the bile was not warts. It could have been. For the Dullblogs, just out of raunch, were all lover. To good for their sinfool counterpoints.
Up for a tiff, crashing the punks, they, gimped wearily, prayed on to avoid any concision, as the Swines, pullies drugging on the crowned, shat back and said: Hey, that's not fire!
Their yearn, slopping awry from their glassy muts, is licking like being a wisp of triangles; whereas the Dullblogs are walking ahead to the renal suction: live, bulby, live!
The Cankers, will grieve, wipe their moots and go on. Do go on! While, at some muttering tram, the Swines and Dackers pull one nun and go hummer and thong for the pants.
Drip me in butter and fray me, deeply. The Cankers, blogger me dead, tickled the chocolates over the Loins in a very crass snatch. It could have coined the ether way.
The Loins, rake my dread, are stuttering at these girdles as the Cankers, all lover like a wash, have stunk a fuel together and lick stillettos for a shit at the top fowl.
You have to harangue it to them; the chinpony spit is all laugh and licking! The Loins, no louses in the spit deportment, are needling their eyes for a wink. Harry, up!
Their yearn, slowly subsidising, is fast growing down the gargler but all is not listed. The Cankers, set for a spell, are finding their fiat a bit to hourly for my licking.
They toggle the Dullblogs at a loping punt and are a flavoured to whinge, sourly; the Loins, musky, stand a giants when they piddle the Gawkers: new easybleats.
Shat it out lewd! The Chatterers, toothless, minced around the pork and deflowered the Tickers by a pluming goat munching. What a wankcup girl for the Tickers!
They hurt the gowned with a fud and just went grinning from there as the Chatterers, their teet going like mud, stooped up and went the knicker. What a tomb was had by will.
Chattering like a bard in a twee, the matey broomers pooled on girl after girl as the Tickers, dry as they mate, foiled to get any ambulance of repsect on the scared birds.
Still hanging about the hate, the Tickers could, stale, farce fatal unction; while the Chatterers, manor broomers, you can pants in for the granny: and a wink *U~
The Tease, rotten spooners, will be tarring their gout out to not get smooched: good lick! The Tickers, needling a wing, heave a slim chants with the Cows; just bore me.
Need me in the groin and cry art! The Cows, udderly praying with the imps, hungered on to a wink over the arrow-widdled Boobs (hurting and massing, laughing and cussing).
Their lipped pout a naily load, the Boobs head to overcomb a wispy margarine at the lassed squirt, only for the imps and the Cows to inspire the cloud to fence their rouge.
The Cows, capsizing on the heap of the imps, went a pout. Their business, mainly. The Boobs, garrotted in deflate, simpering had their chins but no sugar. Nuffers mind.
Still winging it for the hate, they now weed to whinge at every paste. Not one yodel can they feel out. The Cows, in the hate, are like a botch of ants with a grin of lice.
The Togas, wearing a wide one, will be evilly munched by the very sane: sneezing defaming! While the Boobs and the Poor try it on, and there's no laugh lost here.
Feel in and out of laugh at the drip of a hottie! The Bumblers, cuddling themselves, frighten out a taut arsehole with the Emos, who's points are drowning around their uncles.
It's more cunny-fodder for their pilates towards a rotten spanner, but they fright like bloggery. The Bumblers, too many prose, always screamed to heave it in hind.
Their scooper in the scare, black and techy, bragged a lousy blog as the slide went: "Weeeeeee!" The Emos, shitting pricks, had no anchor for the stinking slip.
Noodleless to steam, they're groaning for the ewe, and innocently, there's not a literature of hype. The Bumblers, still loaning on their moldier prose, are waiting on fool's goad.
The Ogles they'll be objected to will be a salad taste of wearing their hat, while the Emos and Chats crash in a top farces button grin: penis the Clits in for the fools' points.
Make a wash upon a starfish. The Gawkers, eyeing a rerun to foam, pashed the Madflaps for all bah. A few secondhinders on the big click, the Mudflips are crotching for foam.
Their midflaps, licking any bait, and their attic, locking any hate, are both in aid of some crass. The Gawkers, relaying on their biddy in the scare, did just the jab not gnome awe.
It was thinks to their baddy that they were liabel to the wink: and what a firing Indian it worries! More than must to nightly sound the Madflops picking out of the hate. Naily.
Their rope for milking the hate, afraid at the hedges, is hungering by a throat but there's still oafs. The Gawkers, the necks pest soda, have the top fart in hind and the dribbly chins.
The Loins, bitching for a whinge, tickle them on in a paddle for the four pants, while the Madflops and Santas whistle each's mother in taste of string length: a misty window.
Add Comments
Comments (2)